


And The Wildfire Inbetween

by MorningsofGold



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Blow Jobs, Car Sex, Jealousy, M/M, Polyamory, Porn With Plot, Public Hand Jobs, Revenge Sex, gansey Takes One For the Team, gansey might have an Older Guy thing, gansey sharing, lynch brother drama, negotiations that escalate, sending messages with hickeys, switch!gansey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:27:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24050572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorningsofGold/pseuds/MorningsofGold
Summary: Declan Lynch loves his brother unspeakably, to the point of violence. The way people love in fairy tales, all blood and magic and miserable eternity. Gansey is their stopgap, their neutral messenger boy.But it’s hard to stand so close to that love without it burning you. It gets pressurized into heat. Into want.
Relationships: Declan Lynch & Ronan Lynch, Richard Gansey III/Declan Lynch, Richard Gansey III/Ronan Lynch
Comments: 13
Kudos: 97





	1. Chapter 1

They always meet on neutral ground under the pretense of a civil conversation, talking points tucked neatly away in breast pockets, simmering discontents stowed behind cordial smiles.

Somehow it always escalates. 

Gansey huffs out a protest as Declan shoves him against the side of the car. Declan’s car, some gleaming and nondescript model stripped of age and character. It still offers enough cover that they can do this in the mostly-abandoned parking lot without worrying about being noticed. Whatever  _ this _ is. Gansey doesn’t have a word for their breathless ritual. The arguments over territory and time that always descend into something more...heated. 

"Stop trying to keep me away from him," Declan says, hard through his teeth. Gansey has only ever seen his perfectly cultured control of himself slip when the topic of Ronan comes up. That's generally all the two of them have to talk about, however, so Gansey finds himself watching Declan unravel quite a lot. Sometimes, right in his hands. 

"I can't change his mind about things any more than you can," Gansey said, struggling against the vice grip on his shoulders pinning him to the car. Declan's breath is hot across his collarbones. Gansey could probably get away if he wanted to, but it would take a genuine struggle, and Declan might very well be able to overpower him. For some reason, this thought makes his head spin. 

Ronan likes Gansey most when Gansey is in control, putting him in his place. Gansey never quite understood that desire, until Declan pinned him against the ground in their first real fight. The one that turned illicit fast.

Gansey’s hands slide up to wrap around Declan's wrists. To pull him off or pull him closer, Gansey isn't sure. 

"If you won't see you, he won't see you," Gansey says.  _ Descalate _ , he urges himself.  _ You should know how to do this.  _

"He's my  _ brother _ .”

"He's his own person."

Gansey tries to wrench himself away, but Declan's body is pressed against his, and it's easier to let Declan slot his knees through Gansey's legs. To let Declan press against the tight bulge in his chinos. 

Gansey swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Declan's eyes follow the movement, keen as a hawk.

Declan Lynch loves his brother unspeakably, to the point of violence. The way people love in fairy tales, all blood and magic and miserable eternity. Gansey is their stopgap, their neutral messenger boy. But it’s hard to stand so close to that love without it burning you. It gets pressurized into heat. Into want.

"Don't lie,” Declan says, shoving him off and back against the car. 

His anger is wicking off, but Declan doesn’t move away. His eyes just travel along the tanned curve of Gansey’s throat until Gansey’s stomach is trembling. A rush of teenage hormones blur out his desire to be the voice of reason. He came here determined to talk Declan down, to deliver Ronan’s terms of radio silence and go. Now he wants to push Declan until something snaps. 

“He's yours and the whole town knows it,” Declan goes on, quietly.

Gansey barks a laugh at the sheer ludicrousness of the statement. Ronan Lynch never belonged to anyone in his life, and probably never would. Gansey can't help the pang that goes through his chest at this knowledge. He could probably chase Ronan into hell and Ronan would still choose the flames if he felt like being spiteful.

“Don’t think just because he doesn’t want to speak to you, you don’t have a hold on him” Ganey says. “You said it yourself, you’re brothers. I can’t compete with that.”

He’s trying to talk himself down, to talk himself back into his kingly modus operandi where everyone’s needs matter before his own. But he’s already slipping into bad habits. HIs mouth is ghosting over the curve of Declan's jaw, his breath is going shallow and ragged, he's showing his hand. He can never tell if Declan meets up with him planning for this to happen nearly every time. He certainly never tries to fight it. 

Declan's hands are in his hair, fingers twining into the waves. He's holding Gansey still, centimeters from a kiss, making him work harder for it. Gansey doesn't ever work for attention, for admiration or care. But Declan demands effort. Between that and the constant button downs and disapproving glances to the scheduling app on his businessman's phone, it makes Gansey wonder if he had a thing for older men. Men he has to impress. 

Gansey kisses Declan, all summer-hot lips and anguish. Declan devours him in response, nearly knocking Gansey off balance. There's very little holding him up besides the car and Gansey's fervent desire not to be the one who folds first. He doesn't want to give Declan the satisfaction. They are, after all, on opposite sides of a custody battle. 

Gansey's father would say that it's best to keep your rivals within arm's reach, although he's pretty sure the Republican would not have imagined an entanglement like this. 

Declan's fingers hook in the collar of his shirt, yanking it aside so his roaming mouth can get to more skin. He kisses hard but never leaves bruises: he’s too image-conscious for that. Once, Gansey tried to nip him and Declan pulled him away with a tight grip on the back of his neck, teeth bared. Gansey could clearly see the telltale Lynch ferocity in that gesture, even though Declan primly apologized moments after and excused himself from Gansey’s parked car. 

Gansey loses himself in the sensation, letting Declan grind against him and kiss as much as he likes. He’s floating on the high of letting off all that steam when he realizes something very important. 

Declan doesn’t leave bruises. But Ronan does.

He stiffens an instant before Declan rears back. There’s a dark, wild look in Declan’s eyes that Gansey doesn’t recognize. Fear? But not of Gansey. Of himself.

“Did Ronan give you these?” Decan asks.

His voice is more raw than Gansey has ever heard. Even when they have their hands down each other’s pants, Declan retains some sense of decorum, a modicum of restraint. He makes the whole exchange feel almost corporate, like a round of drinks after negotiating a difficult merger. 

But now, Declan is completely stripped bare. He circles his thumb around a purpling bloom, the one Gansey could faintly make out bite marks in in the mirror that morning. Ronan doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants when they’re in bed together, so he uses his teeth instead.

“I,” Gansey huffs, suddenly red in the face. Of all the things that could embarrass him, verification that all the town rumors are true gets to him the most. “We…”

He can’t get any more words out, and he doesn’t have to. Declan lowers his mouth to the bruise. Kissing the spot where Ronan’s lips had been with the fervency of a supplicant pressing their lips to a chalice of communion wine. Something about the gesture feels electric, a taboo snapping underfoot, and Gansey shudders. 

“Hold still,” Declan says, almost a plea. “Just....Hold still.”

He presses his lips to every exposed hickey and lovebite, running his tongue along the curve of teethmarks. Ronan bites when he finishes, when he’s close, when he wants attention, but Declan uses no teeth at all. He just moves over the ghost of his brother’s mouth with fervency. Gansey hears a hitch of breath and a little moan. He isn't’t sure if it’s him or Declan. He isn’t sure if this is right, if he’s completely losing his mind or if Declan really is turned on by the sight of the bruises his brother left on Gansey.

Either way, Gansey doesn't care. This moment exists out of time, anyway, every second he steals with Declan does. They won’t talk about this in the future, they won’t even acknowledge that it happened. They’ll just return to being two gleaming boys, cast in silver and gold, the perfect product of their parents. 

But until then, he intends to savor this moment for all it’s worth.

Declan is fumbling with the buttons on Gansey’s shirt, kissing lower and lower down his chest, following Ronan’s handiwork. Gansey flips him around so Declan’s back is against the car, then slides down to his knees. He doesn’t spend much time on his knees for anyone, not even Ronan. But he gets off on the tug-of-war of power with Declan, on how good the other boy looks wracked and anguished in a pressed white shirt. 

Gasney runs his palm across Declan’s cock, impossibly hard. Declan shudders, fingers twining tight into Gansey’s hair, and spreads his legs a little bit. He knows what’s coming. He wouldn’t have asked to meet somewhere so remote if he didn’t. 

Gansey frees Declan’s cock from his pants, then wraps his hand around the shaft and takes the head into his mouth in one determined swallow.

He doesn’t have much experience sucking cock, but he’s getting better at it. Declan is good practice, and so is Ronan. He could probably recognize them with his tongue alone at this point. 

Declan’s hips thrust against his mouth, bucking a faster rhythm while he works the other boy into oblivion. Gansey’s mouth waters with pleasure and anticipation, his chest tight, his chinos tighter. He loves making the Lynches come undone: soothing the beast in Ronan and bringing out the wildfire in Declan. It doesn't strike him as strange, or immoral. After all, he’s known the two of them longer than anyone, since before they couldn’t be in the same room together. He’s always been the weighted balance that equalizes the tension between them, one way or another. 

Declan is close when Gansey starts and doesn’t last long, although he tries to keep up the pretense of negotiation

“You don’t get it,” he rasps, guiding Gansey’s head with an almost painfully tight grip on his hair. “He’s not going to...Fuck.  _ Ronan _ .”

The name comes out ragged, raw and unmistakable as an open wound. Gansey decides to pretend that Declan is just attempting to continue the conversation.

Five seconds later, Declan comes in his mouth in a salty rush. Gansey swallows because he isn’t a quitter, and wipes the back of his mouth off primly because he has decorum. 

“Maybe we should continue this conversation under more seemly circumstances,” he offers. It’s an out, if Declan wants it. If he’s suddenly decided to be embarrassed.

However, the opposite appears to be true. 

Declan hauls him to his feet and presses him back against the hood of the car, his hand already fumbling with Gansey’s fly. Declan’s legs are shaking and he sounds out of breath, but he isn’t done yet. He’s got something to prove before he lets Gansey go home.

Declan’s fingers settle around Gansey’s cock with delicious pressure, and his thumb swipes over the slippery tip. He’s regained some of his restraint, and the deliberate motions tells Gansey that he won’t be getting off easily. Declan is going to make him work for this one. Make him earn every stroke. 

“I want more than Sunday mornings,” Declan says, his breath burning Gansey’s neck. “Let me come by Monmouth. At least once. Tell him to talk to me.”

He kissed the hickeys again, digging his teeth into them. Darkening them without causing any new marks. The casual observer wouldn’t be able to tell an old and a new hickey apart. Ronan will.

God, he wants Ronan to know.

“I can’t make him see you,” Gansey huffs, then groans as Declan twists his hand around his cock, agonizingly slow. He’s settled into a torturous rhythm. “But I can ask.”

“Can?”

“Christ, Declan. I’ll ask, please just-”

Declan presses a kiss to the sweat-slick spot behind Gansey’s ear, and Gansey can feel him smile. Something about that smile goes straight to his dick, and he knows he’s going to be begging before this whole ordeal is over. 

He hopes Ronan will forgive him. 

“Good,” Declan says, resuming a little bit of his custody battle professionalism. He squeezes Gansey’s cock, holding him rooted to the spot and panting for breath. They’ll be no negotiating with Declan. Not today. “Now let’s discuss dates and times, shall we?”


	2. Chapter Two

Gansey sorely hopes that Ronan isn't home when he gets back from his brush with Declan.

Not brush. Collision is a more accurate word.

Collusion, Gansey thinks bitterly as he shoves open the doors to Monmouth. 

Ronan is home. Of course he is. Leaning against the battered kitchen counter with an angry hunch to his shoulders that tells Gansey he's been waiting a long time. He can always tell when Gansey has been with Declan. Gansey isn't sure if it's the product of Ronan's hairtrigger jealousy or some strange link between the brothers. 

He would never admit this out loud, but Gansey sometimes wonders if Ronan can feel when he's got Declan’s hands all over him, or if the hair on the back of Declan's neck stands up whenever Ronan makes a move on Gansey. Like he looks like he's got half a mind to do now. 

"Where have you been?" Ronan asks, not even trying to sound friendly. He doesn't sound accusatory, either, or threatening. It's just a flat, naked question. 

If Declan is all restraint and subterfuge, Ronan is all unashamed, exposed simplicity. Gansey finds it intoxicating. Hard to look away from. Hard to say no to.

"Just out running some errands," he says lightly, shrugging off his jacket. The hot, wavy edge of summer is starting to fade into autumn, and soon they'll be wrapped up in wool socks and sweaters inside the drafty old warehouse. But for now, it's still warm enough for shirtsleeves, warm enough that Ronan often wanders around the apartment shirtless or in his boxers. 

"Out with who?" Ronan says, pushing up from the countertop. Now he does sound accusatory. He's in a mood, one Gansey doesn't have the wherewithal to deal with. He needs to shower, to brush the taste of Declan out of his mouth. He needs to compose himself away from whatever dark electricity the Lynch brothers have going on between them, the force that lights Gansey up whenever he gets caught in the middle.

"Out with myself," Gansey says, trying to keep his voice even. He reaches into the cupboard above the sink and retrieved a cracked mug. Filling it with Virginia-sweet water from the tap, he takes a swig, holding it in his mouth as though to lower his body temperature. He's still running hot from Declan breaking him into pieces under the sweltering sun, and the heat in Ronan's gaze isn't helping things. 

"I've been thinking,” Gansey says.

"I'm listening."

Gansey puts down the mug with a decisive clink. The way his father puts down a scotch glass before making an announcement about where the family will be summering that season.  
"Declan called me this morning."

Ronan makes a sound through his teeth like he's calling a dog off the hunt, or setting it on one. It's a sharp sound that hardly translates into human speech, but Gansey speaks Ronan’s language. He knows the younger Lynch brother is dismissing the entire concept of Declan as anathema. Gansey presses on anyway, the lies coming smooth. If tinged with guilt. 

"Declan called me this morning and asked if there wasn't any way to see you, besides sitting silently next to each other in mass. I told you I would see if you were free next Tuesday for a bite at Nino's, nice and civil, on neutral ground."

"Declan can go fuck himself," Ronan says, like swearing is his first language. 

Gansey leans back against the counter, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes. This had seemed more feasible when Declan’s hand was around him and his mouth was close to his ear, detailing in perfect Machievellian detail how this little negotiation was going to go. The real thing was much more difficult, because the real thing was all Ronan, unpredictable and wild-eyed and raring for a fight nine days out of ten. 

Gansey is well acquainted with that misplaced thirst for violence. He knows how easily it, like a river, can be diverted into less destructive pursuits. He has the bruises on his hips and the bite marks to prove it.

Bite marks. Suddenly all the places where Declan’s mouth has been burn.

“You can’t avoid him forever, Ronan,” Gansey said, pushing up from the counter to head for the shower. He tries not to move too quickly so as not to arouse suspicion. 

Ronan catches him gently by the wrist as he turns to go, pulling him in closer. Gansey doesn't know if he feels him tense. Ronan just smooths one hand up Gansey's hip, his waist, while the other circles his wrist with a steady, anchoring pressure. 

Declan leaves him gasping for air, but Ronan always makes him feel impossibly rooted to reality. Just more Lynch brother mirroring. Gansey is starting to think he's too used to the sweetness of it. Getting comfortable. Getting messy.

"Hey," Ronan says, a little quieter. This is as close as he gets to an apology when it comes to Declan. "I'm not mad at you. Come on."

The words have a suggestive little hitch at the end, and Gansey knows he's going to be kissed even before Ronan leans in towards him. The smart thing to do would probably be disentangle himself from Ronan, shower off, and come back at this conversation with a clearer head.

But Ronan smells like leather and petrichor, and Gansey is not about to pass up one of his rare tender moments. 

He kisses Ronan, soundly. For a moment, there’s nothing between them but bliss. Then Ronan’s grip on his waist and his wrist tighten. He pulls away for an instant, looking at Gansey with wild eyes.

Ronan can do absolutely anything when he gets into this state. Gansey's seen him shift a car into high gear, down three shots in a row, or climb out a window just to avoid a conversation he doesn't want to have when he gets like this. When the emotional maelstrom becomes visible through the scuffed skin of a boy. It's reductionary to say that Ronan only experiences a couple of destructive emotions, despite his calculated effort to give off that impression. Ronan Lynch is incredibly emotionally complex, and that's what makes him so unpredictable. Some would say dangerous. Gansey wouldn't, although he's a little afraid of whatever that look in Ronan's eyes means now. It’s halfway between baffled and anguished, with little sparks of fury at the edges.  
Ronan kisses him again, harder this time, pulling him closer. He drinks Gansey in, taking a couple of deep breaths.

"You smell like him," Ronan says, voice hoarse. 

Gansey's mouth goes dry as a desert.

"Who?" He asks, like an idiot.

"I know what my own brother smells like," Ronan says. There are pained lines between his eyes, like he's admitting something terrible. "It's his cologne."

"It's my cologne," Gansey says, scrambling for cover. 

“No, you smell like that Burberry shit,” Ronan says, undeterred. He’s pressed flush and tight against Gansey and he won’t let go. He just leans in close and presses his mouth to the hot, delicate spot behind Gansey’s ear, breathing him in. 

Gansey passes his hand over the shaved curve of Ronan’s skull while the other boy drags his mouth down Gansey’s throat. A shudder arises from deep in Gansey’s core.

“What in the blue blazes is going on between you two?” he asks, voice a little tight.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Ronan says, and kisses him. 

The kiss is punishing, like he’s trying to get back at him for something. Like he’s letting go of eighteen years of pent-up sibling rivalry. Like he’s kissing Declan. 

Gansey moans into his mouth, resistance melting out of his muscles. 

He doesn't have language for the white-hot thread running between him, Declan, and Ronan, triangulating them into something heady and secret. But it's got him soundly in its thrall right now, and so does Ronan. Ronan with his nipping teeth and roaming rough hands and eager, unashamed insistence. Nothing about him restrained. Nothing about him cares about how he looks right now. Nothing about him is Declan.

Gansey feels punch-drunk on both of them. He knows, rationally, that he should step off this collision course before it takes all three of them down. But Ronan's hands are up the back of his shirt, grasping at his shoulder blades, and suddenly it's hard to think straight. 

"You're fucking him," Ronan says, and he's furious. Pained. And so, so turned on, so obviously that Gansey almost feels like he should look away from it. Like he's witnessing an act of God.

"You know I don't like that word," Gansey says, fumbling with the button on Ronan's fly. Declan just hung him out to dry, but he could go again, easily. He always can, when Ronan is involved.

Ronan repeats the statement in petulant Latin, and somehow it sounds even filthier. Gansey pulls Ronan in closer by the belt loops, pressing their bodies and their hardening cocks together.

"You said what we've got going on isn't exclusive. That we could see other people. You and Kavinsky-"

"Kavinsky isn't your brother," Ronan says, almost a plea. He's chasing Gansey's mouth with that furtive, eager kiss, the one that might as well be a prayer.

"It wasn't our intention," Gansey says, trying to keep things diplomatic even as he palms Ronan through his boxers. He's ready to go. Ready for anything. "It was accidental. Just a way to blow off steam."

"Let me guess, then it kept happening again and again," Ronan says. His anger is quieting slowly, desperation surfacing in its place. He only gets like this in the dark, when Gansey can't see his face, or in the light of day when Gansey's hand is around his cock. Unguarded, with all the hunger for love in him so blatantly obvious. Gansey tries to give him as much of that love as he will take, even if Ronan tends to try to push the self-destruct button everytime Gansey gets too close. But now something about the idea of Gansey with Declan is getting under his skin, stripping him down to his most essential element: want.

“I’ll stop seeing him,” Gansey declares. He means every word, if that’s what it takes to keep Ronan close. “You’re more important.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” Ronan says, almost a growl. “I want you to come back to me after it's over.”

Gansey is sorely tempted to tell Ronan that there are healthier ways to feel close to his brother, that if he’s really craving family ties that badly he doesn’t have to get them through sharing his boyfriend with his brother. But the idea of being shared hits Gansey like a freight train of lust, and for a moment he can’t form a single coherent thought. The idea of burning up under Declan’s appraising eyes before coming home and getting all tangled up with Ronan is so pleasurable it almost brings tears to his eyes. It feels more like a gluttonous fantasy he might indulge in during a hot shower than anything approximating the real world.

But Ronan is here and real, tugging his jeans down over his ass and kissing him like his life depends on it. Telling him it’s all okay. Sending him back to Declan and then calling him home again, like some kind of kept courier boy.

The thought makes Gansey’s cock twitch.

“I promise,” he says, barely louder than a whisper. “I always promise to come back.”

He lets Ronan turn him around so he’s braced against the counter, covering the back of his neck in fumbling kisses the whole time. He nips and suckles, leaving new marks to compliment the old ones. Declan will see them, next time.

Gansey groans.

“Ronan, please.”

Ronan slides his cock between Gansey’s thighs and encircles him with his hand. Gansey covers Ronan’s hand with his own, guiding him in an increasing rhythm as Ronan frots him from behind. His kisses grow more and more erratic, his breath hot on the back of Gansey’s neck. 

Gansey leans his head back, kissing the part of Ronan’s jaw he can reach, and loses himself in sweet oblivion. He’ll resume negotiations on behalf of Declan after this is over, maybe take dictation of Ronan’s countering offer and ferry it over to the eldest Lynch brother sometime next week. They can take all the time in the world they want to come to a peace, Gansey decides as Ronan works him further and further towards a shattering orgasm. 

For now, Gansey is happy to be caught in the middle.


End file.
